


The mirror

by InnapropriateWordChoice



Category: Supernatural
Genre: FTM Dean, Gender Dysphoria, M/M, Trans Dean, Trans Male Character, Transgender, dealing with it alone, warped self perception
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnapropriateWordChoice/pseuds/InnapropriateWordChoice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>High school AU, but not taking place at highschool. Mary is alive and takes care of her sons. Dean is depressed. It's been a long day, and it seems to be getting worse as he look at himself in the mirror. </p><p>This is part of what will eventually be a long fic, but that is nowhere near finished. I wanted to post this independently though, because I think it can stand alone. </p><p>Basically, Trans!Dean is experiencing some  body dysphoria - warnings: Dean's self perception just gets really bad; if misgendering is a trigger for you don't read!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I don't know how bad this could potentially be for some people (I am writing this as a ftm trans person myself) but I know that some people have serious problems with misgendering, and for a while here Dean is really kinda struggling with SEEING himself.

Dean stared at himself in the mirror. If he looked too long, he would begin to imagine things. Despite his doing pushups and situps twice a day, he had only lean muscle to show for it. He didn’t really have abs- muscle, sure, but it was all covered in a layer of _fat_. Above the soft curve of his stomach rested two lifeless lumps of flesh. Some called them breasts, others boobs. Dean lifted one. It was soft, mostly fat and jiggled at the motion. A fleshy, pale (sickly) white lump with a patch of darker skin over it.

Or at least that's how Dean saw them anyway. To others, breasts were apparently beautiful and majestic. He just really didn't see that, nor did he care to, on himself.

He liked to think that they look like the little fat creatures from that one Doctor Who episode. Except that these two nuisances weren’t actually sentient. And didn’t have faces. (Well, there was this one time when Dean had gotten bored and drew some smiley faces with a sharpie, but he didn’t like to think about it. It was weird. Most definitely not normal.)

 _‘The fat just walks away’_ Dean thought wistfully of that sentiment. He wished that they would just up and walk away. He _hated_ his... his _breasts_. He hated that _word_. He got absolutely no pleasure from their existence- they were nothing more than a hindrance. Two unwanted and unwelcome lumps of fat which were _literally_ weighing him down, day after day. Preventing him from wearing the shirts he wanted to wear. Making it hard to breathe. No matter what he tried, he couldn’t seem to make them smaller, either. Starving didn't shrink them, and neither did exercise. Not enough, anyway.

See, it would be one thing to have, say, A-cup... chest flesh. Personally, Dean didn’t even have any clue what ‘size’ he was supposed to be. He never even wanted to be associated with that sort of stuff, and refused to measure and classify himself as a... whatever size he was. He despised... _bra shopping_... and that was another word he hated. ‘Bra’. He shuddered. It sounded somehow vulgar and foreign on his tongue and in his mind. He chose whatever fit and wore the smallest binder he could squeeze himself into.

But no, Dean knew that if he were to conform to societal norms associated with the female body, he would not have A-cups. Or B for that matter. Although he honestly had no clue how all that stuff worked. It wasn’t that the fat collection on his chest was enormous, but it was pretty big. And lifeless. Didn’t do much of anything. Except hurt.

Dean drew himself away from the mirror to focus on the other matter currently at hand. He sat down on the toilet, sighing. Took off his _Fruit-of-the-Loom_ boxers. Reached down to pull at the sweaty string currently between his thighs. Sh- he gasped at the sudden pain when... when  _he_... pulled at it too quickly. He eased the wretched, stinking thing out gently before wrapping it in toilet paper and burying it under some other debris in the trash can. Nobody needed to see that.

His nose wrinkled at his hands, which were now partially covered in some brown mush. He wiped them on a sheet of toilet paper.

Then Dean opened a fresh one. Luckily, his Mom bought thee things and left them silently under the bathroom sink. Dean didn't ask; Mary didn't tell. Easy as pie. He grabbed the one with the green wrapper-large size- this was gonna be a tough week. He opened it up properly, and, trying not to think about it, shoved it in. All the way. Ow. Then he pulled out the cardboard remains, wrapped them in a wad of toilet paper before throwing it out. He looked down for a moment in exhaustion only to curse: “Holy fucking Jesus on a stick. _Again_...God mother _fucking_ dammit son of a-” he trailed off before removing the boxers spitefully, turning on some cold tap water, and rinsing the traces of blood out of his underwear. Dean really shouldn’t have to do this. Again.

It probably didn’t help that sh- he had never kept track of these. Periods. At all. Dean was roughly aware that this happened roughly once a month but honestly would not know if he were two weeks late. This tended to become problematic sometimes when he realized that something was happening.

One time they had been on a family road trip- Dean hadn’t changed anything until they arrived at the hotel in the evening. By that point he had needed to walk in wearing his leather jacket around his waist, and his jeans spent the night drying after being thoroughly rinsed. But he absolutely refused to use a gendered restroom- even though he needed to, he simply wouldn’t. Couldn’t.

Dean shook his head to get those awful memories out of his mind. He realized that he’d spent the last two minutes absentmindedly running cold water over his boxers, and that the water was now clear again. Thankfully it hadn’t stained.

She looked in the mirror.

He looked in the mirror.

I _looked in the motherfucking mirror_ , Dean thought desperately.

Dean felt a sudden overwhelming wave of dysphoria as Dean looked in the mirror, saw Dean standing, holding the soaked underwear with Dean’s breasts and Dean’s tampons and it was just too much.

Dean ran to the bedroom crying.

Dean didn’t bother to put on a shirt.

Dean shouldn’t have to. _Dean, Dean, Dean,_ Dean reminded _himself._

_Dean, Dean, Dean._

“Dean, Dean, Dean,” the human being sobbed into the pillow. It started to sound like it wasn’t even a word anymore. “Dean,”

Dean spent the next half hour thinking quietly. Crying some, but mostly thinking. Dean eventually got up and found a fresh pair of boxers. It was new. Dean had bought some new ones a few days before at Target. Dean pulled them on, relishing the feeling of the fresh cloth on his legs.

 _Better_.

 Dean found an undershirt. He put it on.

Dean noticed his favorite Pink Floyd shirt. It smelled good. It smelled like people thought Axe Body Spray was supposed to smell. But good, because it wasn’t actually Axe. He put it on.

Dean poked at a pair of jeans on the floor. He sniffed them. They probably had a least another day or two. Didn’t smell like the floor of a McDonald’s yet. He pulled them on.

Dean fumbled in his closet for his favorite, oversized hoodie. It was Dark grey and had a faded picture of a dinosaur on it. Jurassic Park. It was a size large, even though Dean wore small. This was why he liked it so much. It was comfortable. Eventually, he put it on.

Dean opened the door to his room. He went into the bathroom again and looked at himself. He hunched is shoulders slightly. He stood up straight. No, that wouldn’t work. He rolled his shoulders a little farther forward until they weren’t exactly hunched, but far enough that he swam in his hoodie.

He could pass.

At least, Dean thought he could pass. It looked like it, but it was kinda hard for him to tell. He wasn’t an objective viewer, as Sammy would say. Sammy would say that Dean looked like the perfect older brother, but, then again, Sammy wasn’t exactly unbiased either.

Dean shoved his hands into the wide front pocket. There, that looked good. This way, Dean could leave the house without a binder. Without a (ew) _bra_. He could just be one of the guys- as long as he didn’t do anything stupid. Like take off the hoodie.

He examined his face before slashing it with water to get rid of any evidence he had been crying. Instead, he smirked in the mirror, practicing. He gave the copyright Winchester grin before winking and mouthing the words ‘blow job’ at himself with a moist tongue running over his lips. He almost blushed, embarrassed, but in all honesty, he wasn’t. Embarrassed, that is.

He was Dean Winchester, and he looked pretty damn good. And he was ready. He was gonna go for it. He was gonna waltz into that school with his classic Dean Winchester swagger, he was gonna be _smooth_. Saunter right up to that other kid. Lick his lips before saying anything- it looks innocent, like you’re planning on saying something, but you make it look _sexy_. It was evil and fighting dirty, and Dean _knew_ it. Classic grin - show _teeth_ \- give a wink and with a little bit of luck, Cas would say yes.

Dean twirled, practiced his tongue-lips-grin-wink regime once more, snapped his fingers and made a ‘rock on’ symbol before he left the bathroom in a much better mood, and left the house. See, thing is, Dean knew where Cas lived (in a non-creepy way) and had a car. What’s to stop him from asking Cas out right now?

 _Absolutely nothing at all_ , Dean thought to himself as the impala came to life. The engine purred as Dean gripped the wheel tightly while driving. He was confident, but nervous. If that made any sense whatsoever.

Ten minutes later he parked the car. “Wish me luck,” he said wistfully to his baby before he got out of the car, walked up to the blue door of Cas’s house, and knocked three times.

A gorgeous person wearing a trenchcoat answered the door, and Dean, instantly forgetting his flirtatious script stammered before he was invited in and the door shut behind them both.

**Author's Note:**

> btw, I purposefully did not use any gender pronouns for Cas. In my headcanon Cas is actually agender. But there will be a fic. Later. 
> 
> MAYBE IT WASN'T AS BAD AS I THOUGHT IT MIGHT BE but I still worry I don't want anyone getting offended. 
> 
> Should I have warned for things getting graphic? I didn't think so- I mean it's just Dean putting in a tampon I like to think we're advanced enough not to consider that 'graphic'.


End file.
